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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23902537">i want to hold you like you're mine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectotwinks/pseuds/ectotwinks'>ectotwinks</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nendodirk/pseuds/nendodirk'>nendodirk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The DirkJohn Hivemind AU Series [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hiveswap, Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Anal Sex, Aroace Equius, Autistic Main Character(s), Bars and Pubs, Canon Trans Character, Clubbing, Depression, Disabled Character, Drugs, Drunk Sex, F/F, F/M, Humanstuck, M/M, NSFW, Never-Ending Fic, Other, Punk, Redemption, Slice of Life, Smoking, Trans Male Dave Strider, Trans Roxy Lalonde, Underage Drug Use, casey is a cat, hal “cis people pride” strider, halexander strider is bo burnham, i know this fic has way too many tags but that doesnt mean it sucks please read it, longfic, this isnt an angstfic these things just exist, white people is stored in the cronus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:53:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,893</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23902537</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectotwinks/pseuds/ectotwinks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nendodirk/pseuds/nendodirk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You, personally, never really believed in love at first sight. You've always wanted a love like in the movies, sure -- but you always were taught that was fake.</p><p>That is, until you met Dirk Strider.</p><p> </p><p>A one-time pressured birthday visit to a gay bar after years of depression &amp; isolation results in a certain John Egbert meeting his future boyfriend. And, these are the events that followed after.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Auto-Responder | Lil Hal/Roxy Lalonde/Jane Crocker, Cronus Ampora/Kankri Vantas, Eridan Ampora/Rufioh Nitram, Gamzee Makara/Tavros Nitram, Jade Harley/Rose Lalonde, Jake English/Dave Strider, Jane Crocker/Roxy Lalonde, John Egbert/Dirk Strider, Kanaya Maryam/Feferi Peixes, Nepeta Leijon/Karkat Vantas, Past Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Past John Egbert/Dave Strider, Sollux Captor/Aradia Megido, Terezi Pyrope/Vriska Serket, past Dirk Strider/Jake English, past john egbert/vriska serket</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The DirkJohn Hivemind AU Series [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722895</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The DirkJohn Hivemind AU</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. That One Where They Meet At A Gay Bar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a longfic/never-ending fic based off a roleplay Kenny (terxzis) and I have been doing for quite some time! All of the relationships besides JohnDirk are in the background, but they're still tagged. And hey, maybe some will get elaborated on later? ;)</p><p>Nevertheless, I hope this is enjoyed. </p><p>P.S. If you want to send asks about this AU, my tumblr is ectotwink !</p><p>P.P.S. title from agnes by glass animals</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>edit 7/4/20 23:00: some grammar corrections + HTML fixes</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You're out of your element for sure.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Your name is John Egbert, and today is your birthday. Twenty-first, to be exact. And, to celebrate this... occasion, your best friend Roxy Lalonde has enthusiastically bought you to his favourite gay bar. And, hell, you hadn't exited the house for anything but work in months, so who are you to decline? Especially after having to </span>
  <em>
    <span>work </span>
  </em>
  <span>on your birthday. You've honestly had a long day for sure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, as you're staring at Roxy enjoying himself from the barstools, you're not sure this was the route you were going for. He's already swathed with booze, bouncing around like a drunken idiot in the centre of the dance floor. Seems like he's happy at least? But you're not sure if you could agree with him. Thank God he's already got someone taking him home; because you're definitely not spending the night sober. Sure, you just turned </span>
  <em>
    <span>legally </span>
  </em>
  <span>of drinking age, but your sister was always an "I'd just prefer you keep it in the house" kinda gal when it came toward underage drinking, and ever since Dad left she's been the matriarch of the house (despite only being, like, four years your senior.) While your mind is trailing off, you are starting to get stressed, what with the loud buzzing of the music and the enthusiastic yelling from people. You feel so pressured and enclosed like you're... being shoved into a box aggressively, and it's getting hard to breathe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah, okay Egbert, it's time to get a drink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>... Is what you tell yourself before a man sits down next to you and notices you worried.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, you okay?" he asks you. He's got swaths of blonde hair swooped to the left of his head. His hair looks as soft as a cloud, like it's being held up in the wind, despite you both being inside. He's also wearing </span>
  <em>
    <span>extremely </span>
  </em>
  <span>idiotic pointy anime sunglasses on his head, the lights of the colourful bar counter reflecting onto the gloss of the lenses (if you can even call them that, considering they're like... one large glasses lens on frames).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, I'm good," you tell him. You don't feel too panicky, just... sensory overload, you guess? You were fine just a couple minutes ago -- maybe you're just not having the whole club dynamic anymore, or maybe you're regretting your birthday. Things just... aren't really turning out how you wished they would.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Want a drink, dude?" Shit. You're not too sure how to... take his offer. You don't want to seem pushy or anything. Does he think you're antisocial and have anxiety ordering? Well, you kind of do, but that's not the idea. You don't want this stranger to pay for your drink, but at this point, you're not sure if you can dig yourself out of this hole -- it'd cause way too much awkward fumbling discussion-wise between you two.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Er, well... I wouldn't mind, but you really don't have to," you assure him, awkwardly chuckling a little. Great job, John. Tonight is just... going swell. You're probably just gonna get booze and call a cab home then pass out on your bed. You just... aren't feeling anything right now. You push up your glasses since they've been falling down your nose, but your nose is so sweaty, and they won't stay, and you --</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You put the glasses on your head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nah. It's on me, dude," the man chuckles. The bartender is busy on the other end of the bar, serving other customers, so you guess small talk is inevitable at the moment, but you're certainly not starting it. Thankfully enough, he clears his throat and proceeds to talk to you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Haven't seen you around here. Is this your first time?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah. This is my twenty-first, actually," you tell him. "Birthday, that is." Shit. You just forget words sometimes. Oh well. It's not a big deal at this point. You're sure he doesn't mind -- he wouldn't be talking to you if he did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh hell. Well, happy birthday dude," he laughs a little. "Well into year twenty-five for me. Life is a ruse." Honestly, he isn't wrong, you think. His lips spread into a smile. Man, he's pretty charming, but maybe you just have a really clear type. He's short, and lanky, and looks uncannily familiar to your ex-boyfriend, but also has his own unique style somewhat? It's confusing, you think, but you're more distracted by his cute face and pretty boy physique.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Interesting. You look a little younger than that," you tell him, only just realizing that probably came off pretty rude. "I meant it as a compliment, by the way. Sorry." You're nervous now. The problem with you socializing is you tend to make comments that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>are in good taste, but really, let's admit it -- they're not. In fact, you more often offend -- or at the very least put people off -- by what you say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why are you apologizing? Thank you for the compliment," he flutters his eyelashes. Oh, alright. So he took that one well. Great. Cool. You feel a wave of nerves wash out from underfoot, like ocean breaking gently onto your ankles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Soon, the bartender returns to the side of the bar you two are at. "Sorry for the wait," he apologizes, taking the order from your new... friend? It feels just a little early to be calling him that, but you guess he's gonna be with you the rest of the night, so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Two Tequila Sunrises, please," he tells the bartender. Once he nods away and starts preparing your drinks, he speaks up, "Oops. Forgot to ask if you have a drink preference... well, uh, it's got a low alcohol content. So it should be good for you," he chuckles, you nodding back at him. Does he think you've never drank booze before? Oh. Well, you only turned 21 today, so that </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a reasonable assumption. You'll go with it, you think.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"By the way, my name's Dirk. Sorry, never introduced myself," he tells you, laughing at himself a little as he places his head onto his chin. He's got a goofy grin on, though it's somehow also charming, all at once. "What's the name of a cutie like you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh wow. Alright, Dirk here is flirty! You can roll with this? You're certainly not used to it, but... you know. You'll hope you can come off as equally attractive? Maybe he's got a type. Wait, you just met this dude, oh god. You should probably drink </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>before having thoughts of romancing a stranger. Not only because it's admittedly been years since you've done such a thing -- so you're overtly rusty -- but because you were counting on falling asleep in your own bed not even five minutes prior to now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"My name's John," you tell him, thanking the bartender and grabbing your drink once it's placed in front of you. You take a sip, the sharp twang of tequila mixed with the sour zest of orange juice. It's jarring at first, but a couple sips later, you're used to it. You pick the cherry out of the drink, plopping it into your mouth, spitting the stem into a napkin. Dirk's probably noticed your tongue piercing by now, more given the fact he's not responded to you in about ten or fifteen seconds. Wow, okay, you're hyper-analyzing again, stop that--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, John, you look like you're enjoying yourself," he jokes. "Your birthday turning out any better than you thought it would?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, you could say that," you affirm to him, a toothy grin forming on your face. The fruity/sugariness of the cocktail is driving to your head, and you're honestly pretty lightweight, so even the 13% or whatever of alcohol in this thing will probably get you at the very least a little woozy. Not enough to be smashed (like a certain Lalonde forming a conga line on the dance floor as you speak), but enough to probably be able to play along with a certain pretty boy next to you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Speaking of Roxy, while you're twiddling your thumbs and borderline staring at Dirk waiting for the alcohol to kick in, the drunk blonde friend who bought you here creeps up. He's toting two Martini glasses -- one for each hand -- and is wobbling as he stands. He's got at least five strange plastic rainbow flower leis on his neck, and his glasses are shittily positioned on his collar. You reach out your hand and grab his forearm to stabilize him, just in case he, like, topples over or anything? He's always been a lightweight, but you're not sure you've seen him </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>drunk anywhere besides your sister's house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What is UP, friends?" he announces, staring off into space, but repositioning his eyes to look at you. Then Dirk. Then you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh. Hey Rox!" Dirk says, waving off to him. Wait, they know each other? This is completely new news to you, personally. Roxy places a half-full martini on the counter, placing a hand onto his scruffy platinum blonde hair, brushing it out slightly, the permed locks forming back into curls immediately. "Hey, Dirkie! I see you've found my friend John," he slurs out, followed by a little hiccup.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You could say that," you tell him with a grin. He's kinda cute like this, but also a little worrying. Eventually, you should probably get him to sit down until Jane is here to pick him up, but it's gonna be at least two hours until then. Man, he's only been here for an hour and he's already crunked beyond belief. It's barely ten at night. But, you push that out of your head -- you're gonna be advantageous and take his drunken-ness to your benefit. "How do you two know each other?" you ask him and Dirk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yep," Dirk says, putting his hand onto Roxy's mouth slightly, to avoid him saying anything embarrassing. Well, that plan went well. "He's a friend of mine. We see each other 'round here pretty often. Likes to get stuck in my hair," he chuckles. "Ouch, what the fuck!" Dirk says, shaking off his hand. Did Roxy just fucking lick his hand? What the hell are you getting yourself into? You take another sip out of your cocktail. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We've had a couple of flings with each other, but pretty quickly we realized that anything official or romantic wasn't for us," Dirk continues, Roxy nodding off, if a little wobbly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, a friend of Roxy's is a friend of mine," you nod to Dirk, giving him a fist bump. Wow, you totally are a frat boy, huh? "Damn straight, brotha'!" Roxy slurs out with a hiccup. "Bleh. Why the hell do I even drink this shit?" he muses, sipping from his martini. You take his hand gently, him turning toward you. "We're only an hour into the night. Why don't you like... sit over there and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>get blackout drunk?" You motion to the lounges, your phrasing masked as a request, though both you and Roxy know it's much more a command. He obliges, and you lead him over, Dirk staying in his seat, drinking from his glass more heavily now. Yeah, you feel it. You finish off by grabbing Roxy a water bottle, and he gorges over it, waterfalling the contents down his throat. He's manspreading across a lounge chair now, flopping himself back into the pillow behind him. Yeah, he's good. He'll stay put for the rest of the night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sigh, dropping yourself back into the barstool and grabbing your phone. You quickly advise Jane that she might wanna grab Roxy soon, but not quick enough to avoid Dirk noticing the fact you still use a flip phone from 2005.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Aw, that's cute," he tells you in a babying voice. Wow, this </span>
  <em>
    <span>asshole</span>
  </em>
  <span>!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look, I just don't want to buy a new phone," you justify to him, putting the pink disaster away into your pocket. It's old, sure, but it works, and because of that, you don't want to replace it. You even have little phone charms on it! It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>cute. But you don't want </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dirk </span>
  </em>
  <span>saying that. Because you know he's making fun of you for it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dude, it's a compliment," he tells you. Okay, yeah, maybe you're reading too much into things? Hypocrite much. You laugh a little, chugging down some more of the fruity poison in your glass. The alcohol is starting to hit you a little, given you're feeling more adventurous and less anxious than before all of a sudden. You certainly aren't complaining, though -- you sure don't have an issue with it, that is. It feels like a load has been taken off your shoulders, and you instead just see Dirk as another stranger at the bar, not like some intensely cooler dude that's </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>above your level. (Even if he is.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So, what brings you... here, tonight?" you ask him, twirling your fingers on the surface of the bar counter. It's got droplets of residue on it, the cool ice and water evaporating from your glass fogging up and dampening the likewise glass surface of the counter. It's got lights installed on the body, a rainbow gleam fading up into the see-through bar surface, and reflecting in the mirror. Nonetheless, it's mesmerizing right now, so you try to focus on it. (Colours are nice, you think to yourself in silence.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Been a long day at work. Annoying customers, equally tedious projects, you know," he says with a chuckle, and boy do you know. You might just be a barista, but you are damn tired of idiots ordering drinks incorrectly, kids trying to get drinks they can't even pronounce the name of. More people have begun ordering from their phones, which makes it eternally easier, but it's not widespread enough to your liking. You just despise working retail. "Figured it wouldn't hurt to grab a drink or two, talk to a couple of cute guys. Maybe get laid. Sounds like a good reward for the end of the week," he continues. You grin a little at him. He sounds non-committal -- in a good way -- laid back to the extreme, a kind of go-with-the-flow kind of person. And if he isn't already, well, he definitely wants to be -- either way, it's a kind of personality you definitely can get behind. Better than being a nervous wreck like someone you know. (Hint; it's you. You're that someone.) You tap your painted black nails onto the glass counter as he talks, not paying attention to him fully, at least not until you noticed he finished talking over ten seconds ago. He's staring at you now. You should probably say something to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know how you feel about the work thing. I work at the Starbucks down the road," you tell him, hoping you can find the common ground on working retail, even if his job is a lot more intense. You think, at least. You still don't know what he works, but if you were to guess, it's something you wouldn't be able to, given his attitude about it. "For the most part, I'm just here because Roxy dragged me here, but I'm... not that opposed to getting taken home by someone," Wow, that wasn't smooth, John. You're probably shoving yourself into things, but by the way, you can see his pupils dilate, he probably enjoyed that comment. And, at least, you mean it genuinely, you think. In the literal sense, it's been a while since you've fucked around with someone -- you're not sure you wouldn't mind Dirk specifically -- it's probably more that you just wouldn't mind the thought of a fling tonight. Birthday present? Probably. That's how you see it, at the very least. You wouldn't say no to Dirk, though, and if you're both down for that kind of thing -- well, maybe he's the best option. Considering you two aren't strangers anymore especially. It's Friday night, it's your birthday, you're sad, you're drinking. You're lonely. What else are you supposed to do?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What's your profession, anyway?" you ask him, realizing you should at the very least know that </span>
  <em>
    <span>before </span>
  </em>
  <span>you talk more about getting him in the sheets. He nods to you, gulping toughly, forming a response in his head. (You can almost hear the cogs turning.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's difficult to explain," he tells you. "Basically, a mechanic. I make projects that customers commission, and also repair shit that they bring e in bad condition. Partially coding, partially physical stuff... sometimes I even get my hands on repairing cars, even. It's a lot, but it's mostly just boring," he laughs. Sounds like an interesting job, you think -- though he definitely looked like someone who worked a tech job. He's got that vibe, you think. "Anyways, mad respect, dude. I could never work in traditional retail. It takes way too much patience. Patience I don't have," he comments, a full smile parting his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't think it's boring, just not surprising," you genuinely tell him. "We should probably move to a lounge seat though. I feel like I'm about to collapse off the edge of this stool." You stumble as you stand up, him immediately grabbing onto your arm as to make sure you won't fall. You won't, though you're glad he cares enough. He's got your glass in hand -- his is already empty. Once you guys flop into a seat into the corner -- still visible, but clad in club darkness and washed out by the people talking with each other and dancing all around you two. There's a table in front of you, so you grab your glass off him and set it there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Anyways, about my job personally," you tell him; if a little belated, "It's really not that easy, you're right. I used to have dyed hair and many more piercings, but I had to 'fix' the former and remove most of the latter every day. They allow colourful hair </span>
  <em>
    <span>now,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but they didn't when </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>was seventeen." You're a little miffed, and you hope that doesn't come off in your speaking, mostly because it'd be stupid for you to be so upset about a thing so menial. Like hair. "It's in the past anyway."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Man, the remnants of my punk phase still haunt me," he tells you, gesturing across all of his own facial piercings. He's got snake bites and a septum piercing, as well as an eyebrow piercing on the left. They're gold, though you're not sure if it's real, mostly because gold facial piercings are overpriced as hell. They're probably plated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm surprised that you guessed I was a tech dude," he says, chuckling at you a little. "Most people think I'm, like, a pornstar or something. It's flattering for sure, but just because I'm blonde, doesn't make me a bimbo." He's got a point. You laugh more openly, definitely revealing off your tongue piercing to him -- the flesh housing a neon green barbell that glows in the blacklight. You take another sip of your drink, thinking off to yourself. "You're a funny guy," you tell him. "If you hadn't told me otherwise, I'd certainly believe you if you said you were like... a camboy or something. And that's a compliment," you laugh, the drunken-ness hitting you like a rock, a hiccup fighting past your throat. It almost hurts to giggle, but you don't notice it too much -- just been a fun night, you guess? Which is better than the alternative, which would be you isolating yourself in your room like you do every year.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can't say I haven't thought about it. If we're being honest," he adjusts himself, leaning more into your space, though you welcome it. His thigh is up against yours now, and he's leaning on the table, about to continue his sentence. "I did try it out once. The compliments were flattering for sure, but it's not fulfilling. Super facetious," he tells you, and you'll have to agree with him. You yourself have never done anything that extreme, but you know people who have, and either they really enjoy it, or it's just not their thing. You don't think it'd be your thing if that says anything. The compliments that come from people do seem pretty dry -- they don't know the person they're watching personally, so how can it be taken seriously? "If I had to be a sex worker, I'd much rather be a shitty pornstar. It's still all so fake, but, at least someone would be there touching me, you know?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod to him softly. He's got more to say, though, so you hesitate on opening your mouth. "I do contribute to the industry my own way. I make these strange sex puppets called Smuppets. It's a sewing project for me, and hey, I get paid cash for it, so I can't complain," he chuckles. "It's also fucking hilarious." He looks back at you with genuinely gentle eyes, the curves of his cheeks bumping up his eye bags a little. He looks like he's about to cry, but then again, so do you. You think both of you are hopelessly lonely, but you're also hopelessly drunk, so you're probably gonna just be a fountain of strange sentences for a while.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I bet your strange sex toys are adorable," you compliment him, letting out a loose chuckle and swigging the last of your glass down. You almost slam it onto the table before remembering you aren't doing shots, so you rest it gently onto the wooden surface. Dirk puts his shades back on, which is disappointing -- you got oddly used to being able to read his emotions. Either way, you're going to try and lighten the mood, as things got a little too deep for you with that last conversation. "You know, Dirk, I was gonna say something," you hiccup, "But I'd be surprised if I knew what it was. My mind feels like slop right now." you remark drunkenly. God, you're desperate. You definitely could shut yourself up if you wanted to, but that's the thing. You don't want to. You met Dirk not even two hours prior, and you already feel like seeing his face light up with every little drunken sentence you blurt out is a game. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And you'd be damned if you didn't win it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You're an adorable drunk," he compliments you, placing a hand to your cheek. You soften up at that, giggling a little as he smiles up at you. Wow, you're taller than him? You didn't pick up on that before. Well, you have now, and you're certainly not complaining. It's not by much -- if you had to guess, maybe four or five inches -- but he's also in platforms, so that's probably off. "Sometime, you could get me to do shots for you. I want to be at least partially coherent tonight, but I get real drunk sometimes, let me tell you," he says, laughing at you a little. You only just now pick up that he's inviting to hang out with you a time, like, after tonight, which certainly doesn't sound bad. You two blend well, you think, placing a hand onto his knee. Good chemistry, maybe. You wouldn't mind calling him a friend, and really, only Roxy truly has that title at the moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your face is fully flushed by now. "Thank you," you tell him for the prior compliment, before telling him you're not opposed to doing shots with him in some strange bar in the middle of the night. Not now, but, someday. It's not an idea that you force out of your head by any means, mostly because the idea of having a friend that you can find common ground with so easily is certainly quite appealing, you think. "Hanging out with you another time sounds cool. We maybe just met, and dude, my brain's on planet fucking Venus, but I can confirm you're super entertaining. In a good way, I promise." You're buttering him up, but you definitely mean it wholeheartedly, if only partially. He's leaning into you now, his shoulder to yours, your legs intertwined at the ankle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You seem very charming. Adorkable, and -- emphasis on that dork, please," he jokes. He's scrambling to put his glasses back onto his forehead, which you think is adorable in it's way, the fact he's wanting to show his emotions so... bare to you. You couldn't say you mind a single bit -- being able to see his eyes again gives another layer of intimacy, you think, the hopeless romantic in you giggling excitedly. Dirk's got this... this </span>
  <em>
    <span>atmosphere </span>
  </em>
  <span>to him, something you can pick up on even when you're drunk. Reminds you of your ex, though he's certainly a lot less quiet, and Dirk seems to be a lot more open with his emotions. Which isn't a bad thing at all -- but you're gonna stop the train of thought there, considering you're not sure you like comparing a man you're probably going to end up becoming friends with (at the very least) to your ex. Seems like a bad omen, somewhat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can't help that I'm too nerdy for most other people around these parts," you tell him, staring down at his face. You realize just how cute he is without his glasses, and your heart does this... somersault inside of you. He's so damn charismatic, and maybe the booze is getting to you for sure, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't all in with him already. The urge to spend at least the night with Dirk is excruciating, but part of you hopes it's not like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>a one-night expenditure. Are you... crushing? What are you, a middle school anime girl? (Considering your phone of choice, that wouldn't be a remark that's too far off, really.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They're just missing out on you," Dirk murmurs to you, now staring into </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>eyes. It's cute, actually, so you're not complaining or anything. He's analyzing your face very closely, and at this angle, you're almost able to do the same to him. He's got soft blonde peach fuzz on his jawline, which is more rounded than yours, but it's not too feminine or anything. He's got a Roman nose, you think -- not too big, but not tiny, and not crooked like yours. (Even then, you weren't born with a big nose. You've broken it too many times out of clumsiness.) He's got little blemishes and freckles dotting every part of his skin, and you kinda just... wanna kiss every single one of them? His hair is airy and fluffy like cotton candy, and you can tell at this angle that he's wearing lip gloss, as his lips are very... well, glossy. (Who's the middle schooler anime girl now?) They've got a little sparkle to them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After about a minute of mutual staring, you hear Dirk clear his throat, about to blurt something out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can I kiss you?" he asks, and you can almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>regret seep off him, but you immediately try to stop yourself from combusting so you can respond before he takes the question back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I certainly wouldn't mind."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And at that, your lips are gently crashing with his, a gently soft expression of desire, a want for more to come. You're dazed with this cosmic urge, despite that being an overstatement. Wow, alright, geez, you're definitely gonna end up either housing this dude for the night or crashing at his place, (wherever that may be?) won't you? (You don't mind, as much as you think you do.) While the two of you are still against each other, he cups your face, determined for him to hold you there as long as he can. The kiss isn't even raunchy -- you're barely toeing the line of making out -- but you're already drunk on the feeling. (or maybe that's the tequila?) Dirk feels like a jolt to your wires, a short circuit buzzing your insides, and you love every minute of it. It feels like floodgates have been opened, freeing you to a world of desire, and right now, you just want Dirk closer. As if he could read your mind, he coaxes you in, stroking your jaw gently. He pulls away for only a moment but shifts himself into your lap, and he'd probably be straddling you at this point; if the state of the seating gave for that. Unfortunately, you have to settle for this awkward positioning, but you're not complaining -- you're just glad you feel leagues less lonely, right now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Want to show me how you use that tongue piercing of yours?" He comments, a sultry whisper against your lips. You murmur a 'yes' back to him, but before you can even finish getting that out, the two of you are back against each other again, saliva merging into one another. Both of you taste like fruity booze, lingering spiked orange juice flavours creeping on both of you. He also tastes minty, so you can tell he was just prepped for some choice makeout sessions tonight. Your tongue barbell curves around in his mouth, which certainly garners some auditory reply from him. You love hearing his little groans, despite quiet and not of full intensity. You wonder if he's ever met a guy with a tongue piercing -- you'd love to show him some of the other things it does-- oh my </span>
  <b>god, </b>
  <span>John Egbert, you filthy motherfucker.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a fistful of your hair and gently tugs, receiving a hearty moan from you that he eats up entirely. He moves your head enough to where he can eat up the roof of your mouth hungrily, wanting for </span>
  <em>
    <span>more,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and oh boy do you love it. He happily traces your front teeth with his tongue, noticing overbite -- you hope he enjoys it. With the heady taste of alcohol and citrus on both your heads and mouths, he rolls himself into your hips, dragging a hearty groan out of you that he laps up enthusiastically. You'd let this guy ride you into oblivion, but those... are not thoughts you'd like to be having at a bar in public! (He's got you screwed, but you're happy about it for sure.) </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If anything, though, you feel like he's just... testing you. Either he wants you to pop a boner in public, or he's testing your resistance entirely. He's still rolling on top of you, which still makes you moan airily. (Thank god you're wearing sweatpants, you guess?) You're honestly just enamoured with the newfound drug that is Dirk fucking Strider, you think.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You pull apart to breathe, heavily upon each other, and you can't help but let out a little chuckle. He's just... beautiful, you think, and you'd absolutely adore seeing him vulnerable for you. You could even just, like... sit right here and let the world wash away with him, but damn do you kinda just want him in your bed right about now. But this is good right now, you know, sitting right here, he's grinding up against you, and oh shit, your phone is buzzing, shit shit </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You should probably take that," Dirk says, moving himself away from you slightly as you take your flip-phone out of your pocket. You absolutely despise the world for separating you two like this, but it's a good snap back into things -- you two are at a bar, so going very far would be stupid, as much as you want it. "If the call isn't important, and you want it, you know, we can just get out of here afterwards." You nod to him, and he agrees to go check on Roxy before you two leave.</span>
</p>
<p><span class="jane">gutsyGumshoe at 22:55</span><br/>
<span class="jane">John. Are you there?</span><br/>
<span class="jane">John?</span></p>
<p><span class="jane">gutsyGumshoe at 23:01</span><br/>
<span class="jane">I’m gonna call you now, since clearly, your own sister is less important than whatever gay bar antics you’re sneezed on.</span></p>
<p><span class="jane">gutsyGumshoe is calling ectoBiologist at 23:03</span><br/>

</p><p>
  <span>Shit. It's Jane. Hopefully, she can still pick up Roxy.</span>
</p>
<p><span class="john">JOHN: hey jane!</span><br/>
<span class="jane">JANE: Just wanted to call and make sure I'm still grabbing Roxy from you.</span><br/>
<span class="jane">JANE: I'm making bread, so I can't talk for long right now.</span><br/>
<span class="john">JOHN: haha, oh. yeah. cool. you're still grabbing him.</span><br/>
<span class="jane">JANE: Are you drunk, John?</span><br/>
</p><p><span>There's a pause.</span><br/>
<span class="jane">JANE: I'll be there in thirty minutes.</span><br/>
<span class="jane">JANE: Have fun tonight.</span><br/>

</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She hangs up on you. You're somewhat embarrassed, although, she'd probably do the same if she was in your position! (No she wouldn't. She's very respectable and well-mannered and not impulsive at all.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After you have your moment of nerves, you look over to Dirk and Roxy. Roxy looks very humoured, and Dirk looks embarrassed. You can only imagine what they're talking about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After they talk for a couple of minutes, you see Roxy enthusiastically wave goodbye to Dirk as he walks back over to you, sliding a glass of water onto your table for you to drink. You happily oblige, getting some cool water down your throat to wash away the (frankly gross) alcohol aftertaste. Dirk pops himself down to you, virtually up close to you, getting a large drink of his own water glass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry for jumping you tonight, basically. I am usually not this... impulsive," he tells you, but you immediately correct him. "No, no, no. It's not like I mind, honestly. It's refreshing," you tell him, crunching down on a chunk of ice. "Usually, I'm not so impulsive either," you tell him, opening up your phone again to check your calendar, just because at this point the weekend is probably sold away to Dirk. Jane likes to invite you to random Crockercorp events without ever telling you, so you've gotta just confirm that your weekend is free.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's a dinner party on Sunday evening, but you're sure Dirk'll be gone by then -- even if not, she's allowed you to bring a plus-one, which feels more like a jab at you than a legitimate invitation. (Mostly because everyone in your family is convinced you can't hold onto any dates.) That's fine, then. You clasp your phone closed, a little pixelated tritone playing as you do, and you shove it into your pocket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I can call over a taxi if you wish, by the way," Dirk says, grabbing his own (much more modern) phone. "Yeah, that sounds great," you affirm to him, groaning out of shoulder pain. That angle you were sitting at just a couple minutes ago really was not comfortable, wow. He pulls up Uber or something on his phone, making you envy the technology he's got, even if you're outdated by choice. He's sitting on your lap still, this time the right way, and it's the perfect angle to place your chin onto his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He makes sure you're okay with him coming over, and you enthusiastically confirm that yes, you are, more than okay with it. Certainly a little nervous for when he's gonna see your room, which is clad unceremoniously in Sanrio and other weeb-ish decorations. Nothing is wrong with a guy who has cute interests. Doesn't make you any less manly, that's for sure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod at him as he exits your lap and offers you a hand to lift you upward, and the two of you lock hands and exit the bar. You're stumbling a little at this point, but, you certainly don't mind. It's a humid night, fog swirling about the sky, you two seated on a bench outside. You remove the blue jacket you were wearing and hand it to him, revealing a bright Hawaiian shirt you were sporting underneath. It's sleeveless, showing your arms. You're not buff or a bodybuilder by any means, but you've got a little body here and there, though you're more chubby than anything. at this point, you just embrace your dad bod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your mind is drifting off as Dirk leans against you, and you think to yourself, this is a good night. So far. There's obviously more to come, but the cool air makes you forget about all that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You like to think you finally had a happy birthday.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The One Where They Have Sex (And a Post-Sex Bath)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You sit on that question for a long time, John's fingers in your hair and his breath against your skin. </p><p>"Probably," you answer honestly, your voice hoarse. "But fuck that, I don't care. I love you too."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ectotwinks: hey guys! sorry this was so late 0_0; issues on both our parts... happy fourth for you american people by the way? remember to wear black and yellow [/s] <br/>anyways, this was written into fanfic format by my cowriter terxzis, and john's dialogue was written mostly by me. i also betaread this one. you're welcome, auburn. [/s] the nsfw section starts at the second line break and ends at the third, if you want to avoid it! thanks for reading! - jake &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>While you’re accustomed to life throwing you curve-balls, the scale of tonight’s certainly wasn’t at all what you were expecting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your name is Dirk Strider, and in the span of a few hours, you went from the lonely, depressed boy toy in the corner of the gay bar to Professional John Tag Along. The thing is, weirdly, you don’t mind. Although you initiated contact first (and maybe seem the most stable and well-controlled in the situation), it feels like John has swept into your life and thoughts like a hurricane. He’s cute, funny, charming, endearing… You, honest to God, cannot say no to that face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John hands you his jacket and you take it gratefully, resting it over your shoulders. Although a tank top and jean shorts seemed like a good idea for ‘wooing’ people, it was perhaps not very practical temperature-wise. You may be a bit of a genius at robotics, but you never claimed to be a well adjusted human being with self-preservation skills. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The jacket itself smells like him -- or at least the cologne he put on tonight -- and the realization of that makes your stomach swim with butterflies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Which, ew, Dirk, get ahold of yourself, you're not a damn teenager, but maybe, just maybe, you can bask in it for the night.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John's stupid, dumb, endearing Hawaiian dad-bod shirt gets exposed now that he no longer is wearing something over it. And it is exactly because it is genuinely so fucking endearing that it almost makes you angry with how cute it is. ‘A-<span class="u">dork</span>-able’ was not far off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since you already have your phone out to call for an Uber, you figure you should shoot Dave a text about you not coming home tonight. Your phone in-of itself isn't nearly as old school as John's, but it's not one of the fancy new models either. The case on it is blue with a design of Rainbow Dash (what? My Little Pony is dope. The power of friendship and all that jazz). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John, being the nosy little rat he is, peeks over your shoulder to see what you’re doing on your phone. It had just changed from your lock screen -- which is an image of you and your co-workers from when you all went out to celebrate after finishing a rather large project (Jade is giving you a one-armed throat lock, a pint of beer in her other hand, Karkat and Sollux are having a drunken shoving match and Nepeta is forcing Equius to smile by shoving her fingers into his cheeks) -- to your home screen. Your home screen is just an image of you, Roxy, and your brother, Dave, at pride last year. All three of you are thoroughly decked out in various items, jewellery, and face paint of your respective flags. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(You're particularly fond of the image because of how happy both Dave and Roxy are in it, but also because that whole parade was just an excuse to deck yourself out in all the Rainbow Dash related merch you owned (Dave had laughed for a solid two minutes when he saw you walk up in your Dashie one-sie. You still kind of spite him for that, but seeing him laugh was good.) By the time you took the picture, though, the upper half of the one-sie was tied around your waist, showing off the simple white undershirt you had on.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dave responds with a simple <span class="dave">"ok"</span> to inform you that he got your message. Satisfied, you pocket your phone again. It’s only now that you realize that John was looking over your shoulder the entire time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yo, was that Dave Strider?” He asks, “I had a thing for him in high school. Wait... Strider... holy <strong>shit</strong> you guys are <em>BROTHERS</em>? </span>
  <span>Wow. I’m shell shocked.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look up at him, surprise evident in your face before everything kind of clicks in your head and you can't help but laugh. Intertwining your fingers with his, you knock your forehead against his shoulder. Dave had a boyfriend in high school named John. Said John looks pretty damn similar to when he was a teenager. John even had dyed blue hair and a fuck ton of piercings at one point. Yeah, it’s a common name, but the similarities should’ve added up by now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yep, I'm Dirk Strider, in the flesh. You're- ah... Egbert, right? You were pretty infamous around the house for a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes-sir, Mr. Egbert, your honour,” he jests, chuckling a little. “I’m famous? Wow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You knew you and Dave had a similar type, but, <em>Christ</em>, the same guy? That's just downright ironic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Though, you suppose it's telling on John's behalf, as well.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John laughs in a way you would interpret as a mix of both self-conscious and genuine mirth, rapidly tapping his fingers together. “You do look like him. But cooler. And less stupid.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Glad to know that between the Striders, you hold the highest opinion of me. I don't exactly blame you, though.” The tone you use is cocky, airy. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you find it easier to be self-confident right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole situation is pretty hilarious all around, but underneath all that, another jumble of emotions starts to surface. It's a weird mix of guilt, embarrassment, and a bit -- okay maybe more than a bit -- of arousal. You're about to spend the night (possibly longer) with a guy that, by your calculations, would’ve been fifteen when you were nineteen. He literally went to high school with your younger brother. You kinda totally feel like a disgusting creep, yet you're also not... exactly opposed to the age gap. It's nothing major (it’s only four years) and John isn't even a minor or anything, but you still feel guilty. It’s now that your mind reminds you that he's probably about to top the hell out of you, and that makes you flush all over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smirk up at him. "Dave learned everything he knows from me. Not to brag or anything, but you're about to get a taste of the Strider charm straight from the source."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh really? Well, can’t say I’m not already impressed by your apparent charms as-is.” John waggles his eyebrows, cracking a cocky grin. It's so ridiculously cute that you can't help but laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Uber finally pulls up to the curb and the two of you break away momentarily as everything is situated. John tells the woman his address, and to your surprise, it's actually not that far from here. He did say he worked at the Starbucks up the block, though, so it's reasonable to assume he would live close by. Even though he's close, The ETA is still about ten minutes from now. John pulls out his phone and some earbuds, offering the other one to you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A silence falls over the two of you, but it isn't awkward. Alcohol has always made you pretty clingy, but he doesn't seem to mind when you press up against him, intertwining your hands again. You opt for closing your eyes most of the journey, but John’s the opposite, instead deciding to look out the window. He's got a thoughtful expression strewn across his face. Part of you wonders what he's thinking about (and if you should be worried), but when he catches you staring, he just squeezes your hand and flashes you a smile. Yeah, he's okay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John... surprisingly has a similar taste in music to you. Even when something comes on that you aren't familiar with, it's still similar enough that you enjoy it, too. Weirdly, it's this that probably gets you gooier than you've been all night. Music is a big part of your life, one of your biggest passions and comforts. You love pretty much everything about music and honestly love a little bit of everything. It's nice to meet someone that also has such an... all-encompassing taste range. You tell him this, and his grin only seems to grow wider. Though, you especially lose your shit when an MSI song comes on. Like, okay, he already had you at the one singular Gorillaz song in a sea of Jpop, but just... how can you </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> be crushing right now? You don't even realize that your eyes have lit up like a Christmas tree and that your hands have started twitching with the urge to get to your tables. Nothing gets the inspiration flowing like a bomb-ass song.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You like Mindless Self Indulgence?” John beams. “Wow! Haha, my sister always hated their music. I’d play it at full blast in my room when I was like, thirteen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, you felt that. If there was one thing the Striders could agree on, though, it was music. If anything, the only ones who ever got upset with you guys were the neighbours. The noise complaints were always worth it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon enough, the cab driver arrives at the gate to John’s complex, and he pauses the music. He has a brief conversation with her, assuring the lady that his house isn't that far in, and she drops you guys at the front after you pay her. He taps something to the gate’s keypad (an ID, maybe?), and they open for you and John. He takes your hand as you two begin the trek uphill. It's such a sweet gesture that all you can do is hide a grin into his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When John’s house finally comes into view, you can't help the low whistle that escapes you when you get an up and down of the whole place. It's nothing to sneeze at, that's for sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did Starbucks change their pay since last I checked, or are you some kind of trust fund kid?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's really easy to get a simple back and forth going with John. Banter is one of your defaults, honestly, so you're glad he's already pretty used to it. Just in case, though, you squeeze his hand lightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John fiddles with his keys and sticks him in the huge french doors at the front of his house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, nah. My sister is kind of like... the poster CEO of Crockercorp,” He chuckles. </span>
  <span>“She’s who picked up Roxy tonight. Her company sort of has a bunch of stowed away funds for me, and on top of that, I apparently have bodyguards that are meant to accompany me to events I attend? I never take them though. To me, it’s stupid. Not like I work for them, what’s it matter if I get hurt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That makes you frown, but before you can say anything, John busies you with taking off your shoes. He even has these fancy little cubbies next to the door to store them. Neat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hums, “so, welcome to my ‘humble’ abode.” As he leads you out to the main room, he continues, “the kitchen is that way, and behind it is the dining hall. I can give you a tour if you’d like, it’s a much smaller house on the inside than you’d think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole house feels like a rarely used living space. It's nice and dusted and everything, but every room feels so cookie-cutter and bland in a way you know John isn't. And it all feels so unlived in! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(That isn't to say the house is *bad* or anything, it just… is so unlike what you've come to expect from him that it kind of makes your skin crawl. John does live here by himself from what you could see, so you guess it makes sense, but it's still kind of sad, though. At least you share your place with Dave. The dude is probably super lonely.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Probably the most unsettling part of the whole place is the large painting in the main hall. On the left wall, there’s a huge photo print of what looks to be John in his preteens, a teenage Jane Crocker, and their grandmother all sitting on a grand chair. He's in the lady’s lap, while Jane is standing beside her. He looks so upset for someone that's dressed so gaudily, but as weird as it is, it is also a little humorous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(You can also really see his buck teeth, and it makes your heart swell immeasurably.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jane is in what you think is called a balloon-hem dress. All three of them have outfits with a black-and-red motif. Grandma Crocker’s blazer is emblemed with the Betty Crocker spoon logo on her collar. Just overall, the whole painting is so stiff and cold. It's definitely not your business to poke into family matters, so you won't ask, but it worries you. Though you suppose that even immeasurably wealthy families aren't without their problems. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On your way through the main room, you spot large, french doors that lead out to a lit-up backyard area with a pool and an attached hot tub. Are you drunk enough to ask John to go night swimming with you? Maybe. Are you drunk enough to ask him to do it with you nude? Definitely not, sadly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of you walk upstairs and pass a corridor that was probably the most frequented of all the rooms. It houses a massive grand piano, slightly worn and torn with repetitive use and love. Art and sketches line the walls of that room, which intrigues you, but John’s already hurried you along before you can ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he takes you into his room. It’s very modest size-wise compared to the rest of the house -- albeit still large, there were just posters all over the walls that made it seem a whole lot smaller. One wall had a little nook with bay windows, the seat housing some cute plushies on it. The rest of his room had a baby blue motif, even down to the pillows and sheets. </span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was also a hall leading to a master bathroom, which had a (second!) fucking hot tub in it and a dual shower. There was even a small in-cove with a washing machine and a drying rack, which you don't see often anymore. Maybe the house was built awhile ago, but had adjustments made specifically for John living here? All in all, it’s a pretty solid master bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He even has a pretty decked out PC on his desk. When you inquire about it, John explains that it was a gift. All his other decorations and furniture were either inherited after his grandma’s passing or they were bought with his own money. He's not a huge fan of spending money from the Crocker fund.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, that's the house!” John beams, throwing his arms out cheerfully. The cheerfulness shifts to confusion when you sit down on the edge of his bed, carefully shedding his jacket and your shirt. *Then* it dawns on him. Did he seriously forget what the two of you are here for in the first place? Cute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This might be a sort of weird question, but this isn't... your first time going this far with a guy, is it?” You bite your lip up at him. John gulps, anticipatory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I always ask my partners to know what I'm working with, I guess. I'm not above being a guy’s first, but I have to tread way differently if that's the case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er, well--” John shifts about, rubbing the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. He looks at you in the eye, then away again. Suddenly, the carpet seems incredibly interesting to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not. I’m just trying to remember the last time. All that really comes to mind is… Dave,” he finishes awkwardly, not managing to meet your eyes.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, well, that's certainly a little awkward. Poor guy doesn't get out much, then. Regardless, you'll be sure to give him a good time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As long as I don't have to sit here and give you a lecture on what anal is, there are no complaints from me. I'm sure you'll be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A silence falls over the two of you for a while until John finally joins you on the bed. Smiling, you take his hand gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I... seriously like you, John. You're handsome and wonderful and hilarious. It's not hard to enjoy whatever you dish out." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile that passes across his face is so, *so* worth it. He's starting to loosen up a bit too. Yeah, he’ll be just fine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My boundaries aren't very difficult,” you start, figuring this is a conversation the two of you should have before bumping uglies. “I like being touched everywhere, I don't mind marks and I'm pretty much an open book when it comes to kinks. The only thing I'm semi-strict about is that I usually exclusively bottom, but I can and have made exceptions." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets red in the face, but carries on anyway. God, is he cute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh. Well, guess that works out then, since I usually top. Also, I’m a decently open book as well.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John starts to undo the buttons of his Hawaiian shirt, eventually tossing it in the pile already starting to accumulate. He stops and stares at it for a second longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can keep that jacket after this, by the way," He smiles, cupping your cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh? Are you sure?" It's more of a rhetorical question than anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"’Course! It's not like I have an attachment to it. I might, though, after you wear it," John’s smile is sheepish as hell, but intoxicatingly charming. Now it's your turn to blush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I mean, you don't have to. I'm just giving you a gift because I feel like it," he muses. "If anything it's in return for the drink you bought me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sneak a glance at the jacket. It feels rather silly to get overly attached to an article of clothing a guy you just met gave you, but you honestly do like it. Just looking at it makes you think of John. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your hand comes up to caress the other man's where it rests on your cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you come to my place,” you start, voice low, “I’ll let you have something of mine. It's only fair." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John makes a small noise in the back of his throat. His eyes suddenly get much sharper and much more sultry. They rake over your bare chest hungrily. The closer John gets, the more you feel the literal cells in your body start to bristle happily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With your other hand, you grab John's free one and bring his inner wrist up to your lips. Tentatively, you press a soft kiss to the pulse point. It’s extremely intimate and you feel a little silly, yet at the same time, it feels oddly appropriate. This isn't some drunken hormone-filled rush to get laid as quickly as possible. John’s getting excited at the prospect of seeing you again. </span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>His pulse is fast and heavy against the skin of your lips. You're tempted to keep his wrist there forever, but he pulls his hands away from you to resituate them on your hips. He pulls you closer, his lips now dancing softly across your jugular in a similarly intimate expression. The shiver that overcomes you isn't one you could've hoped to suppress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely gorgeous,” John marvels. God, he's making you weak at the knees. Thank God you aren't standing. Maybe the kiss to the jugular was significant because it certainly seems like that's what he's going for, currently. Praise is the fastest way to get you hot and heavy, and John is more than loading it on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You whine, “fuck, John,” quickly encouraging him further by cupping the back of his head. His touch is electric, lighting up your skin with a burn so satisfying it sinks right into your core. He's not even really doing anything yet and you're already a bit woozy; you can't imagine what hickeys are going to be like from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John pushes forward more into your space until he's practically kneeling over you on the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, you definitely could get used to being sprawled out on a mattress for this boy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lavishes your chest with attention. He seems so utterly fascinated with the clusters of freckles that dot your skin, leaving loving kisses to everyone he can get his hands on. It's so strange to be so… cherished. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nervous laugh that escapes you makes him stop for a moment, his blue eyes wandering up to meet yours. His adoration is so palpable, working its way under your skin to make a new home there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have really pretty eyes, by the way,” John whispers in awe, his fingers dancing along your sides gently. “It's a shame that you always keep them hidden.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(When did you lose your shades? You honestly can't remember, but that might be the arousal flooding your brain. In the end, it doesn't matter, you have spares.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The need to kiss him is suddenly overwhelming, and you cave, closing off the distance between the two of you. Maybe it's because you haven't really done this in a while, or maybe it's just John, but either way; all the loving attention is starting to make your brain a mess of thick and heady blissed-out mush. He's not particularly trying to get you off or anything, just exploring and familiarizing himself with your body, loving every inch of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your heart aches painfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your fingers find their way into John's black locks, not really controlling or pulling him away, just grounding yourself with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"John," you hum breathlessly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dirk,” he parrots back, his teeth latching gently onto your nipple. You gasp softly, throwing your head back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly but surely, you're letting yourself start to become undone under his ministrations. It's like a weight's been lifted off of your shoulders and you finally can just... </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It's too early for you to say things like ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>I love him’</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>he's my soulmate</span>
  </em>
  <span>’, but you can see the possibility of those statements coming to fruition. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(It should scare you, starting vulnerability in the face and practically egging it on, yet John somehow makes it so </span>
  <em>
    <span>easy </span>
  </em>
  <span>for you.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of you still have your pants on, which is readily apparent by how uncomfortable you're getting in yours. The friction was nice awhile ago, but now you're just uncomfortably hard. A glance at John proves that he’s in about the same situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Teasingly, you buck your hips up against his. You whine at the friction while John moans low in the back of his throat, meeting your thrust in earnest. It's unfair that John can be so shy and passive outwardly, but has this… blunt as fuck side that's becoming more and more apparent as time goes on. With the drop of a sentence or a simple touch, he has you breathless, and he knows it. Does he think he has the upper hand here, spoiling until you cum all nice and pretty under him? It's clearly been too long since he's been with a Strider. You can put up more of a fight than that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Using the grip you have on his hair, you tilt his head back, latching onto his neck. The hickey you leave is hideous, rough and ragged just above his collar line. Judging from the guttural noise he just made, John doesn't seem to mind in the slightest. You hide your smirk by attacking his neck again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shift in balance has you on top of him now, the noirette’s hands scrambling for purchase. He tentatively sets them on your hips but seems to think better of it, instead settling on your ass and squeezing. Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You grind back against his hands encouragingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, <em>fuck</em>,” John wheezes, left panting as your ravage his neck. His eyes are starting to look a whole lot sharper, your need practically bubbling up. Any second now, he's going to pounce, and you practically croon happily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's just as dominant as he is sweet, it seems. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(You're not complaining, of course, but it really makes you wonder what else you can wring out of him. How far can you push him? Could you make his senses start to swim likes he's doing with you? It's suddenly imperative that you bring him to the edge (of what? orgasm? his instincts and desires? all three? you don't know) and that you go right along with him.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you pull off his skin, this time, you aim for his mouth. John’s eager to meet you with his tongue, licking into your mouth. That fucking piercing is going to be the death of you, you swear. You almost keep forgetting it's there, and every time you're reunited with it, you are far from disappointed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of you pull away for air, ragged breathing being the only thing to break the silence. John’s hair is ruffled beyond help, his face beet red and eyes heavy with lust. His neck is covered in blooming red hickeys that make you feel just as proud as it does territorial. You’re sure you're no better, appearance-wise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dignity isn't a thing anymore when you're both drunk and horny. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which, speaking of horny, your man is currently way more clothed than your arousal is okay with. You paw at John's pants in frustration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Off," you grunt, bordering on a growl, finding purchase on his zipper while trying to pry it open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, demanding much?” He chuckles, but helps you get them off nonetheless. “Right away, my liege.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's back to pinning you down with his torso again, only now he's completely naked. You can feel your nipples against him, and his warmth is doing something to you, that’s for sure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John starts to move back down your body, kissing your skin as he goes. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your jean shorts and looks back up at you. “This what you want, baby?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"God, yes," you groan. You de-tangle yourself from around John and lift your hips so it's easier for him to get your stupid shorts off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were already tight to begin with, and you starting to get hard definitely did not help the matters at all. Fitting your ass into those fucking things was already hard enough, do you seriously think there's room for you stupid horny dick? You couldn't even manage briefs. The look on John’s face when he sees this is priceless, yet electrifying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bonus of John dealing with your pants </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> mean that you get to have a good look of him. Even at just the age of twenty-one, John looks like a man. He's nice and broad, fills out quite nicely; His chest is paler than his face and for arms, for sure, but he's still naturally tan all over and it's delectable; He's hairy, but not disgustingly so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You could drink up absolutely all of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ache in your heart decides now is a good time to come back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who gave you the right to be so damn handsome? It's unfair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunno. Take that one up with my lawyer,” he hums, taking your cock in his hand. “Why, hello there.” He grins stupidly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holy hell, you're such a dork," you groan, half in faux frustration and half in ‘holy shit his hand feels nice’. The soft spot you have for this guy already, God.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes wander down to his crotch and the sight of him standing hard and attentive for you makes another wave of arousal seep into your bones. Even if he wasn't impressive down there, you couldn't be more excited about this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a purposeful lick of your lips, you spread your legs further apart for him. "Condom and lube?" you ask a little breathlessly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes-sir,” John rolls slightly over, to be able to reach the drawer in his nightstand; grabbing a rubber out of the sparsely used box and a bottle of lube. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can prep myself, or you can do it for me. Up to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t mind, I can prep you,” he smirks wide. God, confidence is such a charming look on him. “Or, I mean, it’s really up to you, honestly." Well, he's working on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I want you to, actually," you chuckle, just a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I like it when my partners prep me; it's why I offered." Slowly but surely, you're starting to catch on to when John starts to doubt himself, you think. It's just... a gut feeling you have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You aren't going to break me, dude, don't worry. Even if you did hurt me, I like it rough, so…” you trail off, awkwardly averting your eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The reassurance seems to benefit him, and he nods, positioning your right leg over his shoulder. With one hand, he grabs the bottle and squirts some of the liquid onto his fingers. "You ready?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," you murmur, letting yourself lay back and get comfortable. With how tender John's being, it reminds you of why this is one of your favourite parts about sex. It feels nice to be cherished; it feels intimate to be slowly worked open by your partner. The slide in is mostly easy if not tight, but already feels so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> satisfying. You've been feeling so empty since getting started with John and it's wonderful to finally have some relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ahh, fuck, John, that's good," you moan, canting your hips up for him. His fingers are a lot thicker than yours and it's incredible. Call you a hardcore bottom, but he hasn't even touched your prostate yet and it already feels so great. The sensation of being filled up to the brim is like coming home, even if right now it's just one finger at a time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? You're doing so good, Dirk.” If the praise and gentle attention weren't enough, he decides to stick another finger into you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John seems to eat it up when you make noise for him - when you affirm to him that he's doing good - so you don't try to stifle yourself. Not like you even could think about that right now, anyway; your head's all gross and fuzzy with lust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he keeps fucking petting you! It's doing disgusting things to your heart and your insides. You almost want to cry because of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's just being so soft and affectionate and you can't fucking stand it - or, well, you can, but you're going to get way too attached to this kid by the end of the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of doing stupid like grabbing his hand and lacing your fingers together, you get a hand on your dick to try and relieve some of the tension. You're already leaking so much for him, it's embarrassing. Just getting some friction feels like heaven and you choke back a desperate sob of relief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Something tells you that's not the first one you're going to be holding back tonight. You're a bit of a crier, truth be told.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What does bubble its way to the surface is a needy, keen, and frantic jerk of your hips. Fingers are good, </span>
  <em>
    <span>great</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even, but you've never wanted another man's cock inside you so badly before and he's right </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he's not </span>
  <em>
    <span>giving</span>
  </em>
  <span> it to you and you're about to fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>burst</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Christ, when the hell did you become so desperate? So disgusting mushy feelings truly do this much to you? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"John," you say again, this time as a plea, opening your misty amber eyes to get a look at him. You're not crying yet, but you're already embarrassingly close to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You probably won't be able to hold back the waterworks when he gets inside you and continues with this stupid affection of his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mmm? You ready for me?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, god, John, please," you whine, trying to pull him in closer with the leg grip you have on his shoulders. "Or else I'm going to pin you down and ride you myself." Which, okay, that does sound appealing, but that can be for another time. Right now you just... need John to ram into you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John looks slightly shocked at the prospect, but quickly bounces back. "Al-righty then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes the condom from behind him and rips it open with his teeth, sliding it onto his cock a little clumsily. It doesn't take him very long after to get himself lubed up and ready to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When John finally does push into you, you actually let out a sob of relief this time. It's everything you've needed and not enough all at once. Then he slides home, and you’re suddenly floating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You quickly try to scramble to get some sort of grip on him, grab his arm, his hand, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It's all so much; your insides are preening happily, your arousal is momentarily satiated and your heart feels full to bursting. Your brain has turned into absolute fucking mush, not even your normal string of self-deprecation remaining. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span> is what you want, what you desire. Absolute, all-consuming nothingness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though it isn't nothingness, now is it? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What's alight in you is borderline primal; the need to grab and secure John and keep him close, to make him feel good with your body. The thought crosses your head that you never want anyone else other than John inside you again; never want him to be in anyone else but you. You're too far gone to even care anymore about how ridiculous that sounds, logically, especially considering the fact you two just met.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"John, John," you moan, unabashedly, complete and utter bliss apparent in your tone. Jesus, in hindsight you hope the tequila is part of why you're acting this fucking shameless and easy. Not that your pride is present to feel offended at the moment, but still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Dirk, oh my god," John gasps. He's starting to get a coherent rhythm up now and it's driving the both of you up the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John grabs one of your hands and laces your fingers together, the softest smile you've ever seen from anyone spreading over his face. It's all too much, and you hiccup, overwhelmed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shhh, it's okay,” he coos, squeezing your hand. “I’ve got you. Fuck, you feel so good,” he praises hazily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the mist of overwhelming affection, you barely notice John shifting the angle of his thrusts around inside of you. Your hazed-over mind can't place why until it - quite literally - hits you like a bag of bricks and he pounds right into your prostate. You wail, entirely spontaneously, your tears finally spilling over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John, <em>John</em>! Right there, oh my <strong>god</strong>!" you sob out, tightening your legs around him as much as you can manage with him literally jack-hammering into you steadily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of the reason why you keep your core so in shape is for moments like these. John's got you practically bent in half and it makes you feel so used and fuck-able and so </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you can hardly stand it. Right now it's just the icing on the cake, driving this already amazing experience into being something incredible and you're just fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Embarrassingly, you spill all over yourself with a wanton moan, hiccuping uncontrollably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don't stop, don't stop," you beg, doing your best to keep your post-orgasm noodle-y legs wound right around John's shoulders. If he stops now, you think you might combust -- and not in a good way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He soothes you again by leaning his forehead against yours as he fucks into you, showing no signs of stopping. He's so caring and kind in a way that's so wholeheartedly genuine, it makes his powerful thrusts that much easier to take. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The over-stimulation is going to your head hardcore. You want to grab him and cherish him and praise him, but every time you try it's just a messy slur of words and blissful sobs from John’s relentless pace. Though, your general enjoyment seems to be more than enough. There's a fire in his eye as he does his best to fuck you just to your needs, almost like he's completely forgotten about himself and just wants to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>off. You're seeing stars, both with your eyes open and closed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dirk… <em>fuck</em>, I-I’m so close,” John moans shakily. You grab for him and pull him into a kiss that's more breath than lip, but neither of you really care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>Johnnn</em>, you're…you're so good," you whine, words still disgustingly slurred from how hard you came. Everything is sort of a trance right now, honestly, but you can't keep your mouth shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wanna… <em>wanna</em> make you cum; wanna make you <em>ffff</em>-feel good," you continue, literally just babbling now. “<em>Sssssso</em> handsome... making me feel so good... So perfect."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's hard to keep track of what spills out of your mouth; it's difficult to focus on anything that isn't John. It's mostly just scattered bits of praise and affirmations that you love all that John's doing to you. You love his presence and you love his touch and, fuck it, you love </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It's ridiculous, but it feels so true. It's not even that you usually get this sappy and affectionate after sex or after an orgasm, it's just... </span>
  <em>
    <span>John</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's no word in the English language that could sum him up accurately. He's an entity and an enigma of his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's just John.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To the tune of your scattered praise and with a low, guttural moan, John finally cums (you following with your second time), filling up the entire condom. The two of you are left breathless and sweaty, him on top of you, and he doesn't pull out just yet. Even though you have two loads of jizz cooling on your chest and have John’s softening cock growing uncomfortable inside you, you don't quite mind. You wouldn't want to move for anything in the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can still feel his heart racing so fast, he’s almost shaking. “Is it too early to say that I love you?” John asks softly, breaking the silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You sit on that question for a long time, John's fingers in your hair and his breath against your skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Probably," you answer honestly, your voice hoarse. "But fuck that, I don't care. I love you too." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And the two of you stay there for a while longer, basking in each other and the weight of what was just said. It's John again who breaks the mantra, pulling himself up on shaky arms. He pulls off the condom with a disgusted face and ties it, throwing it to the trash can. It's impossible not to grin up at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bath?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bath,” you agree enthusiastically, taking his hand to help you up when he offers it to you. The soreness in your ass is already starting to sink in.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The master bathroom is so incredibly fancy it nearly gives you whiplash. There's a two-door shower </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> a bathtub that looks more like a jacuzzi than anything. It has multiple marble countertop sinks and this huge walk-in closet at the far end, too. You don't even try to hide your ogling as he starts to warm up the water of the bath-uzzi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John goes all out with the thing like it's nothing, adding in this fancy bath bomb along with turning on the jets. Great sex and a great bath? Holy hell, you are </span>
  <em>
    <span>sold</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You immediately sink as far as you can into the water, effectively drowning out the world and John giggling at you for a few seconds before you come back up. He's got a shampoo bottle in his hand that he squirts out, lathering it up a bit before he plunges it into your hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” He says, rubbing his fingers against your scalp. You make a noise to signal to him that you're listening, but really, he's also kind of putting you to sleep right now with this spa treatment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are we going to do about… this. About us, I mean.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh. Yeah, that's a good point. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One you don't want to think about right now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You struggle to give a coherent answer, mind clouded by John’s motions onto your head. He stops long enough to allow your brain to throw a sentence together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow. Let's just… talk about it tomorrow,” you bargain. John hums in approval and kisses your cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of your bathing session goes similarly, except in content silence. The two of you take turns washing the other, sluggish and wiped out from the good fuck and the impending need for sleep. It's nice, though. The water is warm and John’s care for you is even warmer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wouldn't trade it for the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before the two of you get into his bed, John throws on some boxers and sleep pants. He throws one of his shirts and some boxers in your direction too, which you take happily. Being surrounded in his scent is like bliss, even if the thing is wearing you more than you're wearing it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even warmer than the bath are the blankets of John’s bed and his strong arms around you, holding you close to his chest. You nuzzle into his skin and sigh. You're already half asleep when he speaks to you one last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“G’night, Dirk. Love you,” he yawns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. John Egbert is dangerous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too, too dangerous. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, you don't want to ever let him go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Night, John. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I love you too.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24658654">shakin booty, makin sweet love all the night</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/nendodirk/pseuds/nendodirk">nendodirk</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoosmell/pseuds/zoosmell">zoosmell</a>
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        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25239568">learning to let go</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/nendodirk/pseuds/nendodirk">nendodirk</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoosmell/pseuds/zoosmell">zoosmell</a>
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</div></div></div>
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